


Recluse

by stabbyunicorn



Category: Worm (Web Novel)
Genre: (parenthetical treacherous thoughts), Conversations, Friendship, Gen, Growth, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mild Language, POV Second Person, Redemption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-12
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-11 14:06:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15973868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stabbyunicorn/pseuds/stabbyunicorn
Summary: One rooftop over, Sophia. Do you see her? Recluse. The vigilante you wish you could be.What if the locker happened just a bit earlier? What if, instead of escape from her tormentors, Taylor wanted something else?





	1. Recluse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The narration is meant to describe Sophia’s thoughts, but is not in Sophia’s voice, as Sophia’s voice would not be able to describe Sophia's thoughts.

Wait: There. One rooftop over. She stands—you think she’s a she, but you’re not quite sure (you want her to be a she). She stands, her eyes glinting yellow. Her stance is unmistakable, standing there, tall, hungry, predatory, waiting…

She glances up. It takes you a moment to realize: she’s looking at _you_ (your heart skips a beat). You can’t see her mouth behind her mask, but you’re convinced she’s smirking at you. Laughing, even. You want to bristle, but—

She pivots on her heel to face away from the ledge, pivots away from you—and then—

You rush forward as she slowly—so slowly—tips over backwards.

Then the screams begin.

Not yours. You don’t scream (not even when—

You reach the ledge of your own rooftop just as she topples over the side of hers. You see a glint of something around her, reflecting just slightly in yellow light.

She falls. One story. Two. And before the last, she slows, rotating upside up to land gently upon her feet. Not like a flier. No: something’s holding her. Stretching…

She twitches slightly just as she touches the ground, even this movement somehow elegant (beautiful). You see that glint of something fling back up behind her, back towards the rooftop from which she fell. Somehow, she must have detached it. Tinker?

No. Not a tinker.

You forgot about the screams. A gunshot reminds you. You see a spark where the bullet ricochets off her suit. How? It doesn’t look armored. It looks… silken, almost. Soft. The yellow of the streetlamps reflect off it with a gentle grace (but you’re not envious).

It must be armored, and yet, you realize, swallowing roughly as you once more survey the horror below… she’s no tinker.

The sound of terror draws your eyes to the gunman.

He was trying to pull the trigger, but even if he had, and even had his opponent not been wearing armor, he would have been no better off: his aim was off by a full forty degrees at a half-dozen feet.

It’s not his fault, one part of you suggests. But it _is_ his fault. He’d not have found himself so ensnared had he not been so weak as to… well, you preferred not to think about it (you preferred not to think about many things). Suffice to say, his crimes were numerous and severe.

You had been planning on apprehending him yourself. You’d been waiting until you could catch him in the act, and tonight, he had acted. You had been about to strike when you saw _her_.

He was trying to run (pathetic). You supposed it was only natural he’d end up here, ensnared within a giant web, eyes swollen shut from stings of wasps or bees, panicking, spiders crawling and skittering across him, flailing (useless).

Still. He was made of sterner stock than his friends. His clients. They laid curled upon the ground, shaking and whimpering, even as spiders wove their way across them, spinning them into cocoons.

And she, the figure dressed in a color so close to black, with only those yellow eyes—did they glow? She stepped forward. Flicked her wrist. It was a delightful gesture, lazily powerful, as if she had no concerns whatsoever. As if it were all beneath her. As if she were humoring her prey with her presence.

She flicked her wrist, and a baton extended.

A sharp, efficient movement, and the gun fell from the man’s hand. Another, and he collapsed back into the web, his flailing becoming nothing more than gentle twitches.

One final move collapsed the baton and hung it, once more, upon her waist.

You saw her breathe in. Measured. Calm. Assured. (Perfect).

“Do you like what you see, Shadow Stalker?”

Her voice was unnaturally melodic.

It takes you a full five seconds to respond (say something, Sophia, anything). Measured, like her breath had been, you tell yourself ( _entranced_ , you didn’t).

“I—”

She chuckles, just as you begin to speak. You cut yourself off. You should know more about her. Let her talk, Sophia (you can’t _not_ let her talk). You wonder how you can hear her so well from three stories up, but then, the night is quiet.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “You’ll think of something to say by the next time we meet, won’t you?”

There was an edge to her voice (you’ll think of something). You should be angry. You are angry. You try to say— you’re not sure (next time). But something about that edge in her voice grabs you and twists at you.

“You’ll handle cleanup,” she states. “Name’s Recluse. See you ‘round.”

She walks away. There was no hurry to her footsteps. No concern. You could catch her (you could run). You want to call to her (next time).

You handle cleanup.


	2. Weaknesses

It was pedestrian, yet she made it look preordained. Just a mugging. Victims probably wouldn’t even have gotten hurt. Much, at least. And the mugger’s comments, derogatory though they might have been, had still been amusing.

Would you have bothered? There was probably much worse going on, even now. Maybe not even blocks away. It was Brockton Bay, after all. It was barely responsible to bother with something so plain as a mugging.

And yet, here she was: Recluse. Taking the time to bother. Is this the third time you’ve watched her? Fourth? (Sixth.) Only a couple of weeks since you first saw her, and you want to see her more (have to see).

She’d dropped from somewhere. A roof? A fire escape? As she landed, her baton had extended and hit the mugger’s hands, knocking the knife away. Another short swing hit his knees with a crack.

You felt your own heart beat with excitement. Over something so simple? Really? Yet here you were, and here you are (there she is).

And now, Recluse advances upon him, even as he stumbles and falls onto his side with a funny little scream. He’s at her mercy, now. She could do anything to him. Kill him or hurt him. Perfect control. You relish it (from a distance).

Her posture changes. She’s going to speak. You don’t want to miss it (not that you care).

You fling yourself off your perch and into shadow. You rematerialize in the dark, further within the alley, just out of sight (she won’t know you’re watching) (she probably already does) (you wanted her to, anyway).

“None so weak,” she says, barely a whisper, yet somehow her voice carries to you, nearly unrecognizable for the fury laced within it, “as those who prey on ones they feel weaker than themselves.”

One thought is all you can think (one) (only one): Badass. A badass line for a badass vigilante.

And with that, spiders flow across him, weaving them into their webs.

“Tuesday,” she says, turning away. But you know who she’s talking to. “Four o’clock. Burger place. You know the one. See you there, Stalker.”

Again, you’re left with the cleanup. You pull out your phone.

You sigh (irritated) (only irritated) (not excited (not)).

* * *

Friday night, you spot a mugging of your own. The woman pulls her victim from the street into an alley, a knife digging into his side.

You feel yourself smile. Your heart beats just a bit faster. You don’t wait.

You jump down. Feet from the ground, you become shade, and you switch back just as you land.

An elbow to her arm pulls the knife away from his side. Your fist against hers knocks it from her hand.

You feel the thrill go through you (it feels good) (should it?).

Arm around her neck, you pull her away from her victim. She struggles feebly, but although she may be older, her muscles aren’t a match for your own (not when you have leverage).

“None so weak,” you say, the grin on your lips obscured behind your mask, “as those who prey on ones weaker than themselves.”

The grin fades.

It’s not that you think Recluse would mind (she wouldn’t). After all, you’re a badass, too, even if you’re no longer a vigilante (your fingers clench at the thought) (your grip around the mugger’s neck tightens).

But it’s not the same.

You wonder why. You don’t— (don’t know why).


	3. Strengths

“What did you mean?” you ask her. “‘None so weak as those who prey on ones weaker than themselves.’”

You’re at, as she’d put it, ‘the burger place.’ It’s Tuesday. Four days after your own patrol (you hadn’t counted).

Her eyes spun to you. At least, you think so. You can’t really tell, behind the yellow lenses of her mask. You don’t shrink under the gaze (you don’t).

Long arms gently lay burger upon tray, not bothering glance at it. Her legs are crossed ever so delicately.

She chews her food as she takes her time to answer you, and mastication never did look so effortless. She’d pulled her mask up only enough to allow eating. You yourself were wearing a domino mask. More practical, in situations such as these (you want her to see you) (does she like you?).

“‘ones they _feel_ weaker than themselves,” she says, finally deigning to reply, with a firmness that seemed incongruous with the quiet of her voice. It was as eerie and off-putting as everything about her always was and had been (delightful (entrancing)).

You weren’t sure you understood the line between the two statements.

You only allow yourself a raised eyebrow.

A corner of her lips tugs upwards. You wonder if she’s laughing at you (she is).

“Nobody is strong all the time,” she says. “Doesn’t make them weak.”

One of your muscles twitches. Does she truly believe this weak and strong stuff? Sure, sometimes you explain things in those terms yourself, but that’s different. A metaphor. A handy tool, nothing more (not an ideology (not)).

“I suppose,” you allow, noncommittal. You let a mischievous smile make its way onto your face. “So, you’re saying it’s _not_ just a badass line?”

She smiles back, and her shoulders tick upwards slightly, and you see, behind her poise, some honest amusement (you want more).

“Well, it’s that too,” she says, a bit of satisfaction in her voice, and her hands pick up her burger and she takes another bite.

You shake your head and glance out the window. A smile shoves its way onto your face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I read the words “Fugly Bob’s” one more time, I don’t know what I’ll do (I’ll do nothing)


	4. Tools

“What do you want?” you ask, from across the small table at the coffee shop where Recluse always took her tea, and to which she’d invited you (you).

“From this,” you clarify, gesturing between yourself and her, trying to make the gesture effortless (failing).

“A friend, Stalker,” she says with a small smile, the gentlest you’d seen on those ruby lips (you like her lipstick) (did she know?). “A friend.”

You try to keep your laugh cynical (not delighted) (not wishing for more).

“Friends always turn on you, eventually,” you say, finally. You catch a strange movement of her lips. A slight buzz makes its way to your ear. Flies.

You continue. “It’s human nature. Animal nature.”

“Animal?” she enquires, her voice once more controlled and melodic, her smile no longer so gentle (your heart sinks).

“There are predators,” you say. “They see prey in everyone else. There’s parasites. Symbiotes. Some are prickly, not letting people too close. And some are protectors. Like you.”

Your analogy had gained depth. You’re a bit proud (more than a bit), but then, you always had been. You’re pleased you now saw yourself as something above even a predator, if you can fit yourself into such a simplistic analogy. Someone who protected those whom she saw worthy (worthy). (Protector). (Not prickly).

Recluse laughs. And you know she’s laughing at you. Fine, maybe you are prickly, but not as prickly as you used to— it’s an analogy, Sophia, don’t overthink it.

“You make us all sound so… _beastly,_ S- Stalker,” she says, her voice catching slightly. She smiles widely. “That analogy isn’t new, you know. But you missed a bit. A category. A big one. The biggest, one might say.”

“Oh?” you say.

“Human,” Recluse says. “For we are above the Beast, as we are able to choose to be more. If we are predator, if we are prey, parasite or symbiotic, prickly—” she smiles slightly “—or protector, we are so because we choose to be… or because we lack the tools not to be.”

Her voice cut off slightly at the end. Perhaps she had been about to qualify it, adding an ‘I suppose’ or ‘I guess.’

“Tools?” you ask.

“Analogy stretching thin,” she admits. Just a bit. “But humans are toolmakers. And if one of us lacks a tool, another with sufficient humanity can pitch in.”

There was something odd about her voice, and her lips twitched after, and you wonder if she said something she hadn’t meant to say. Something she felt bad about having said.

“Sufficient humanity?”

You think (hope), for a moment, she will elaborate.

She doesn’t.

* * *

“You know what I do?” she had asked, her voice careful to sound casual, effortless. You’d been able to tell she had been taking care (you could only tell, you know, because she was taking care to allow it).

You’d mentioned, obliquely, that you’d had things you were trying to think through.

Maybe you’d not been so oblique. Maybe you’d rambled. Said some things (not said some things). She’d listened to what you said (she’d listened to what you hadn’t). She’d understood (understood) (accepted). Her hand had briefly raised (would you have taken it?).

“I write it down,” she’d continued, not bothering fully swallow her bite of muffin. “Don’t know what you’re thinking until you write it.”

A small snort had left you. “Then you read it later?” you challenge. Her lips had tugged upwards, and you did your best not to sigh (why do you challenge?).

“Never said anything about reading, did I?”

You doubt writing would help. Doubt there was anywhere you could write that wouldn’t be found. Perhaps, though, it would be better if it _were_ found (would be right).

This would all be easier if you had never met her.

Your analogy had only been an analogy. A tool. Not a way of thinking, or an ideology.

But now, you weren’t so sure. There were things you’d done. You wouldn’t say you felt bad about them (couldn’t say so). You’d never been good at being honest with yourself.

Your chest collapses upon itself at the admission, even if it is only to yourself. You’re glad she’s not here to see it.

Here. Home, if you could call it that.

Would you be honest with yourself if you wrote? Would you feel the guilt (you can’t)? Would you admit what you’d excused as actions towards one who was _weak_ (that’s not what it was— it was high school, it was (fear) (you) (you are weak)).

You punch. Just before your punch hits the wall, you stop. You let out a strangled scream.

You can _hear_ yourself telling yourself not to think about it, and you can’t stand the cowardice.

Recluse wouldn’t cry (that’s a lie) (and it isn’t) (but it is). But you’re not Recluse (and neither is she) (not all the time).

And so you do.


	5. Choices

Emma could tell something was off. It had started a month or two ago, but she was only now noticing. She had never been all that observant. Perhaps she only had eyes for Taylor (you weren’t jealous).

You were jealous. You can admit it, now. Not that you’d want her to treat you as she had her former friend. Not in a million years. But still.

You hadn’t realized it until Recluse. Recluse actually paid attention to _you_. Listened. Knew how you were feeling. Always knew what you needed to hear.

And now you knew why you hated Taylor. Had hated. And it wasn’t her fault. And now, you weren’t sure how you felt.

Your shell—what else could you call it?—had been steadily eroding away, and Emma had begun to notice. You’d had your shell precisely to allay the sorts of feelings that now possessed you. It was that shell that had made Emma think you, in her words, “strong.”

She’d looked up to you. How must she feel, to see her strong friend, her “hero”—

You _wish_ you’d been a hero. That you’d been strong. You wish you knew how to help Emma, too.

But there were some things you couldn’t do. Not anymore. And which you hated yourself for ever having done. You grit your teeth at what you _know_ Recluse’s response would be.

You can hear her calm voice. Can see the tilt of the head _just right_ to project perfect confidence. That smile: almost condescending, but still somehow friendly. Caring. ‘The past only matters,’ she’d say, ‘in so much as it shapes the future.’

It should be a comforting notion: that what you’d done in the past was never truly important; that the only thing that ever was important was what you’d do about it.

What you’d do _next_.

“—cry yourself to sleep for a straight week?” you heard Emma’s voice from beside you.

Muscles in your face contract in an ugly way, as (angry) (not angry) (painful) painful thoughts, vague and not fully-formed, threaten to rise up.

You shove the thoughts aside. Later, perhaps, you’ll try to write about them. Convince them to take shape. Try to find the words to describe them. Fail. Try to acknowledge them anyway… For now, the thoughts are unimportant.

Taylor’s before you. You can see her almost say something; her words die as she processes what Emma had said. A tear trails down her cheek. Something about Emma’s comment had cut deep.

The thoughts threaten to rise up again. You inhale a bit too sharply. Emma’s eyes dart towards you, you think.

Emma thinks herself a predator, and Taylor her prey (your prey). Your prey. And in a way, Emma’s right. Taylor is prey, because there are predators hunting her. Because you were a predator. Because Emma is a predator.

But Emma is a predator because she chooses to be.

And now you make a choice, too.

“Emma,” you say, your voice almost resigned, tension leaving half your muscles with a small, involuntary sigh, the rest remaining taut as you  _try_ to keep it together. Your head shakes slightly side to side, whether at yourself or Emma you’re not sure.

“Shut up.”

And suddenly, as you turn, as you hide your face from Emma, as you bite down upon your lip a bit too hard, you find yourself making dozens of choices.

Taylor grabs her backpack and runs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably good time to emphasize: the narration, although it is Sophia’s thoughts, is not written in Sophia’s voice: it uses words and phrasing that Sophia would not use. Much of Sophia’s thought processes are emotional, and emotions don’t always have good words to describe them—and even if they had, Sophia is not practiced at finding them.
> 
> The narration is attempting to describe them properly, rather than however Sophia might try, and most likely fail, to do so.
> 
> Plus I really enjoy writing the overly-flowery language that Recluse has used in this story, and wanted to be able to use it more (although where Recluse always strives for formality and poise, the narration is... neither).
> 
> Trivia: this is the most re-worked, re-edited, & re-adjusted chapter so far.


	6. Acts

“I fucked up,” you tell Recluse. You sit before her in your favorite coffee shop (favorite because of—). Favorite because of her, you’ll admit. You’re unmasked. You’d unmasked a few weeks ago, even though she hadn’t, not that the domino mask you’d been using had hidden much.

“Yes…” she says, her words slipping out through a wry and, you think, unpleasant smile. “You may need to be more specific, Sophia.”

“Can you— can you drop the act? I can tell— I mean,” you weren’t sure what you meant. And now, you thought better of speaking. “Never mind. Not important.”

She regarded you. Her face relaxed slightly.

“It’s not an act, Sophia. Not really. But I’ll try to tone it down.” Her face looked almost sad. She licked her lips, and they looked ever so slightly less red than they usually did.

She fell silent. Waiting. You need a moment to collect your thoughts. She can tell. You need more than a moment, but you’ve had all afternoon. Time to—

“I’ve been, to use our analogy,” you started, wincing at bringing it back to something so simplistic. So insufficient. “I’ve been a predator. A fucked-up excuse for a human being. Only looked to make people my prey. Anyone. Especially one person. And I— I don’t know how I can…”

Recluse doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t supply a witticism or quote a philosopher. She just waits, her face almost sad. You’re grateful. You’re furious.

“It’s only ‘cause of you I even…” you say, a laugh escaping. You can feel the self-hatred within it. “I’m still not good. Don’t know if any anything can…”

You grunt in frustration as you fail to find the words you need.

“I’ve hurt people, Recluse. Some I can’t apologize to. Even if I wanted. Even if words, uh…”

You can’t even find words to describe your lack of them. You’re frustrated (embarrassed) and embarrassed and feel you should do, must do so much better, but you don’t know how.

“But there’s one person I know deserves an apology. Even if no apology will ever…”

You’re crying. _(weak)_ , you hear yourself whisper to yourself, and you hate yourself for it.

“I shouldn’t be crying,” you say. “Not like I…”

You take a deep breath.

“I need to apologize. To say ‘I’m sorry.’ And not just for me. For her. Because I am. I’m sorry. So sorry. I…”

You trail off. Your eyes meet where hers ought to be.

Recluse says nothing for a long moment.

“It seems to me,” she says, her voice shifting between warmth and her usual cool self, “that you _should_ be saying this to _her._ ”

You can feel it. That bit of anger in her voice. Of disdain.

“That’s why I’m here, dammit!” you yell, startling the other customers of the coffee shop.

Your hand leaps to your mouth.

You bolt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> She doesn’t need the (parentheticals) so badly, anymore.


	7. Plans

You must’ve run a mile. Your pace slows. You feel yourself sink to the ground. Your back rests upon a brick wall.

You’re near Winslow, you realize. You wish you weren’t.

When had you realized? _How_ had you realized? Recluse walked different. Talked different.

Somehow, though you could not see her eyes behind the yellow lenses, you’d recognized the expressiveness behind them. And then, at school, the little movements she’d make. The little movements that must have carried over from headspace to headspace.

And so you had unmasked. It was only fair. Not that she hadn’t already known long since. From the beginning, probably.

A swarm begins to swirl before you. You wonder if she’s going to hurt you. Kill you.

But why would she? Why now? Why, when you _know_ she knew who you were, even before you did, and long before you knew who she was?

You want to be angry with her. She misled you. Manipulated you. If it weren’t for her, you wouldn’t hurt.

If it weren’t for her, you wouldn’t be better than you had been.

You know, someday, that you’ll be proud of how you’ve grown. That the pain will fade away.

But today, it feels like it won’t ever leave.

“Sophia,” you hear. It’s her voice, and it’s not. You didn’t know she could do this. You want to be in awe… but you know she is only able to do such amazing, beautiful things, to create such beautiful swarms of butterflies and moths and bees, because of all the torment you put her through. And so, the awe turns bitter.

For she stood before you, even now. A swarm of thousands upon thousands of insects.

The swarm sits next to you. A butterfly lands upon your shoulder.

She buzzes several times, as if to speak, but says nothing. Neither do you.

Another minute or two, and the swarm begins to fade. Your breath catches, but—

“Sophia!” her voice calls. It’s her. Really her. She’s out-of-breath, but only a little. And her mask’s off. A hoodie and jeans thrown haphazardly over her costume, a bag over each shoulder— one yours; you must’ve left it when you ran.

“Sophia, I…”

For once, she seems at a loss for words.

“I’m sorry,” she says, at last.

“You’re sorry!” you exclaim incredulously. “You! And what have _you_ done?”

“You’re hurting,” she said. “Because of me.”

You don’t know how to respond.

“You know I planned this, right?” she asks.

You look at her. Shrug. Yes. Does it matter? You’re still here, whether she planned it or not.

“I was going to plan to hurt you. Like you’d hurt me. Destroy your life. Get you sent to, well.” She winced. “But I wanted you to _understand_. To feel… shame, I guess. I suppose because, so often, I find shame and guilt eating at _me_ , so why shouldn’t it eat at you, too?

“And then I thought: why not both? What better revenge than to make you into someone you’d hate?”

You laugh, but it’s not a laugh that feels good.

“You succeeded,” you say. “And I can’t even— I can’t even hate you for it, Taylor. I can’t.”

She looks away. Wipes at her eyes.

“I did succeed,” she says, softly. “And I didn’t. Because then I decided I’d do something else. Something ridiculous. Something stupid. _Stupid._ ”

She laughs, and like yours, you can tell it wasn’t one that felt good.

“I was _so_ stupid, Sophia. I thought I could change you. But I couldn’t. Not ever.”

You reel back. Tears threaten to fall anew. You’d thought— well, you knew change never happened overnight, but you’d thought you _had_ changed, and not by a little, but—

“I couldn’t change you because we can never change each other. We can only find ourselves to change. And you did. You have changed. Are changing.

“I thought I could change you, and I thought…

“I thought I could be your friend. Soften the fall. I couldn’t do otherwise. It wouldn’t be right. And there were parts of you I thought would be— that I’d like. And I was right, Sophia. There were.”

She took a breath. She stood there, awkwardly. She’d always been tall. With you on the ground, she towered above you, and you could tell it made her uncomfortable.

“But I wasn’t right. It wasn’t right. I manipulated you. Became someone you looked up to. Someone you wanted to _be_. Someone you hated that you _weren’t_. So I could try to inspire. I knew you were Shadow Stalker. I’d pieced it together. It wasn’t that hard. You’d had to leave for one too many ‘family emergencies’ and the locker, I’d _just_ gotten a new lock, and it wasn’t broken. You _had_ to have used powers. I figured it out, and I couldn’t stand it, couldn’t stand _you_ , and I hated it. Hated _you_. I…”

She trailed off.

“I’m sorry, Sophia.”

You say nothing. You’re not sure what to say.

You laugh again. A gaspy laugh, halfway between breathing and crying. It feels better, this time. Your wrist, covered in hoodie, wipes tears from your face, even as you shake your head.

You can’t stop from smiling a strange smile. Not exactly happy. Not exactly unhappy.

At last, you sigh.

Taylor collapses in a very Taylor way, unceremoniously, to your left.

“Fuck,” she says, in the way that one might, had they never before used the word.

Your laughs begin anew. Your hand reaches up to cover your face; you let it fall back, again, to your side.

“Fuck,” you repeat, and while you’ve had more practice with the word, you’re not sure you’d ever said it like this before.

You look at her. She tries not to look at you. She fails. You can’t read the emotions on her face. You doubt she can read the ones on yours, even if she were a Thinker. And, you realize, she probably was, and probably didn’t even realize it. You manage not to laugh at the thought.

Another little sigh. A matching one from her.

Your arm twitches.

Once. Twice.

Finally, you reach your hand out to Taylor.

Your friend reaches back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. My writing, particularly for fanfic, tends to be terse. In this story, I used very few scenes, and none not directly related to Sophia’s emotional journey. I added description reluctantly, always needing it to, in some way, enhance the themes: I needed Recluse to take bites of her hamburger so that the dialogue would be broken up by some action, but I could only add it if if somehow revealed something more about her character.
> 
> There’s multiple reasons for this. My screenwriting background tells me everything must mean something. A fear of spending too long warns that I’ll lose momentum and never finish. The original story I keep never working on asks me “why are you writing _this_ ,” and doesn’t listen to the response “because I want to.”
> 
> A more patient author could have written this, at the very least, longer. Instead of 4,700 words—a single chapter, for many—they would’ve written 25,000. In each chapter, they’d have included more detail; lots more little, inconsequential actions; subplots that add depth or humor. They would have included more of what took place, in my story, off-camera. What was happening with Sophia & the Wards, while this was happening? With her family? Did she lash out at them as she was sorting through things? Did Gallant notice anything? Did he say anything? How did Sophia’s patrols change? Did they get more violent at first, instead of less? What _were_ the signs Emma noticed?
> 
> But, since it wasn’t important to the core story I was trying to tell (and, because I was afraid to make it long and lose momentum), I left all that as an exercise to the reader.
> 
> What happens next?
> 
> I imagine Sophia probably convinces Taylor to join the Wards. Perhaps something more than friendship comes between Taylor and Sophia, and perhaps it doesn’t. Perhaps Sophia tries to do something for Emma. If she learns from Taylor’s mistakes, she will probably try to figure out how to get Emma in therapy, at the least. Possibly more.
> 
> Maybe Sophia comes clean. At least with the school. Perhaps more. Perhaps there are consequences. Perhaps she agrees she should face them. Perhaps those consequences aren’t so severe, as she’s come forth willingly. And in any case, she has a friend to help her through it.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


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